


I Like You Covered In Paint

by ForeverFlamingFire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: "Writer's Block", Art, Conversations, Gen, Getting along, Injury, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 00:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15785115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverFlamingFire/pseuds/ForeverFlamingFire
Summary: Grantaire is having an off day and sits by the River Seine. Enjolras finds him and they have a conversation. Enjoltaire friendship.





	I Like You Covered In Paint

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this trying to get through my own writer's block. This was my first foray into this fandom, so hopefully it's all right. This was a bit of stream of consciousness writing hence why the story is from Grantaire's perspective and the title is a version of one of Enjolras' lines, and I didn't use Grantaire's traditional nickname

It was a day like all the others recently. The thoughts that usually triggered something for his art didn’t come, so he’d gone to the Seine, found his favourite bench and sat there, looking at the rhythm of the water and the way the boats passed. He knew it was a useless exercise. He knew his friends would tell him it was normal that every artist went through. God knew how many times Jehan had complained about to him as they sat in this very spot. Unlike Jehan, he didn’t search his friends out. He knew where they’d all be: the Musien. It seemed they never left these days, especially Enjolras. He’d like to say he was avoiding it for a different reason, but he knew it was because of Enjolras. He knew Enjolras was always going to be there, so no matter how many times Bahorel or Jehan tried to talk him into stopping by, he refused. 

He looked up into the sky, watching the grey clouds. Everything spoke of the rainstorm that was about to be unleashed on Paris. The few people in the streets hurried into their homes or a tavern. Grantaire knew he should probably be doing the same, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt the first drops of rain splattering against his skin. It was the cold rain of spring, but he tried to ignore the shivers that were running up and down his spine. He knew Combeferre and Joly would be angry with him. He was probably going to come down with something and he felt the niggle in his right ankle from when he’d fallen while sparring with Bahorel, trying to get the other man’s anger out in a constructive way. He knew he probably should’ve gone to Combeferre or Joly with it right away, but he’d been physically exhausted from sparring and mentally exhausted from painting, that he’d brushed it aside, and it had continued that way for the last three days. He was simply too busy to take care of it. He knew his friends would be angry and Courfeyrac would probably say he was turning into Enjolras, but that wasn’t what was worrying him. 

What was bothering him was the tickle of wanting to work, but when he stood before a blank canvas, and his mind was as white as the fabric before him. He woke early, went to sleep late, tried to ignore the ache in his body for alcohol as he finally somewhat listened to Enjolras about stopping. Some days were easier than others in all respects: painting, sleep, sobriety. These days all of it is more difficult, but he closes his eyes and imagines his life as Bahorel when they are in the sparring ring. His life is slightly better than him at everything, but he has more will, more fight, more stubbornness. Sometimes he thinks it’s only by sheer force that he is still here. 

“’Taire,” says a soft voice, and though he doesn’t turn, he sees the golden curls in the corner of his vision and he knows who it is.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asks, his voice all bitterness.

“I… We were worried.”

It’s strange to see Enjolras struggle with words. He knew Enjolras has his own struggles mostly to do with a rich family who have a manor outside Paris and another one in Marseille. If there’s one thing he’s relied on since he’s known Enjolras however, it’s that the man knows exactly what to say in any situation. 

Grantaire sighed. “How did you know where I was?”

“Jehan told me.”

“Of course he did,” Grantaire muttered.

“I want you to hear me out, all right?” Grantaire didn’t reply, and he kept his gaze on the Seine. “No one’s seen you in days, we were worried. The last person who saw you was Bahorel, but both he and Jehan say you’ve been ignoring them as well.”

“Did it ever occur to you I didn’t want to talk or be found? That I wanted to be left alone?”

“I know, but next time send a message to one of us that you’re fine. That you want to be left alone.”

“All I can promise right now is to try.”

Grantaire felt Enjolras’ gaze on him. He shifted. He had never felt entirely comfortable when the other man rested his entire gaze on him. It had always made him feel uncomfortable. 

“I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m not as cruel as they think.” He pauses, and looks away from Grantaire. Grantaire knows Enjolras has figured out that he’s uncomfortable. To Grantaire it’s a mark that Enjolras isn’t as clueless to the feelings of others as some think. “I do care about you, ‘Taire. I want you around. I never mean to argue with you so much, but sometimes I think it’s good. I think it’s made me better, more passionate, a better writer, better at trying to figure out this whole revolution mess.”

There’s a silence. It stretches between them, until it starts to get awkward and Grantaire is sure Enjolras is going to leave, go back to their friends, and continue planning a revolution he isn’t sure he believes in.

“So you’re as unsure as the rest of us,” says Grantaire. 

“Maybe even more.”

Grantaire tried to change his position on the bench. He could feel his butt going numb from the cold wood, and he could feel the rain against his forearms, face, hands. He tried to cover up the wince as his ankle twinges by shifting a piece of hair out of his face and twisting to get his coat. Enjolras noticed though. Grantaire knew he had from the moment Enjolras started to stretch out a hand to stop him from moving.

“Enjolras, I’m all right.”

Enjolras shook his head. “You’re not. I can see it. Your right ankle is bothering you and you’re stressed and exhausted. You really should be sleeping or least resting.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Going home wouldn’t matter. I live on the same street as Feuilly.”

Enjolras sighed and Grantaire looked away. He didn’t want to deal with Enjolras’ pity. It was why Feuilly was the only one who knew where he lived, and he had sworn Feuilly to secrecy the moment the other man had made the discovery. 

“’Taire.” He paused. “Grantaire, look at me.” Grantaire slowly raised his head, meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “I’m sorry about whatever we made you feel. I’m sorry you felt you had to hide from us, but right now I’m more worried about you than about keeping your secret. I want you to come stay with ‘Ferre and I.”

“And what if I don’t want to. What if I just want to sleep and not be bothered?”

“Jehan was right. You’re as stubborn as me sometimes.”

“I’m pretty sure that was when we were fighting a couple months ago.”

“Maybe, but I could tell how much he cared about you even if you were fighting at the time. He wanted to make sure I knew who you were as a person. That we were both in the middle of a fight, abet a different one.” Enjolras paused. “It helped, you know. It helped me see you in a different way.” 

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“No. I refuse. At the very least I think ‘Ferre or Joly should look at you. You’ve probably made it worse by walking on it for three days.” 

“Everyone’s going to think of it as another stupid decision.”

“And they’d be right, because guess what? I agree with them.” Enjolras looked Grantaire over. Grantaire shifted. “Are you all right?” Enjolras asked.

“Now that you know, I might as well tell you that I’ve been in pain for the last three days, but I’m fine.”

Enjolras let silence rest between them for a moment. “You’re not covered in paint.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“And I appreciate it, but it turns out I like you better the other way. There’s something unnatural about your clothes and hair not being splattered with green and blue and red.”

Grantaire sighed. He didn’t feel himself either not covered in a spray of the stuff, but he’d been struggling to turn his thoughts into art recently, and he know how to talk about it to someone who wasn’t Feuilly or Jehan. 

“You can’t right now,” said Enjolras, after another minute of silence. “I’ve heard Jehan talk about it. I don’t fully understand what you’re going through, but I’ve seen others go through it and they come out the other side. You don’t know how brilliant you are. I watch you, and I’m proud to know you. I look at your art and never want to stop looking at it because I can see who you are in it. I think you’re a brilliant person, Grantaire. At first I thought you were a fool to not realise it, but now I know it is not your fault. It is a part of the battle you fight everyday and I was the fool because I didn’t realise how hard everything is for you.”

Grantaire breathed. It was the only thing he dared to do. He hadn’t thought Enjolras would say these things to him. He had thought they would always be fighting each other. He thought there was no hope for them. He didn’t know what to say as a reply. He wanted to say thank you, to thank him for understanding where he was with his art, with his mind, with everything that was happening in his life.

“Come. You’re coming to ours and don’t think you can get away with ‘Ferre simply strapping up your ankle. You’re sleeping where ‘Ferre and I can keep an eye on you.” 

Grantaire nodded. “’Rel, Jehan, they’ll…”

“’Ferre will tell them where you are. Don’t worry. I have no doubt they’ll follow ‘Ferre back to ours.”

Grantaire allowed Enjolras to see his wince when he stood, but then he shrugged it away and followed Enjolras down the street. He had dreamed of this moment many times. He could feel a painting of dark greens, blues, purples, a smidge of black, and through it all a bit of orange and yellow signifying light where he had previously thought there was none.

“I have a request,” said Grantaire. “Can you ask one of the street urchins to find Combeferre. Tell him that Combeferre, ‘Rel and Jehan need to stop at my apartment. There’s an unused canvas I know what to do with now.”

A hint of a smile played about Enjolras’ face. “I will do anything for my friends, ‘Taire. I’d think to think of you as one of them.”

Grantaire felt the burn of Enjolras’ affection and he knew what the painting was going to be about: duality. His coldness clashing with Enjolras’ warmth.


End file.
